


cast of thousands, but we were the real two

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Old Captain Keepers In Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: On paper, it makes perfect sense. Their careers have followed after one another, intersecting enough times that it seems like divine intervention. Every path Gigi has walked, Iker has walked his own in parallel.





	cast of thousands, but we were the real two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunafish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunafish/gifts).



> this one was a long time coming. imk, thank you for letting me write it and i hope you enjoy! happy spring fling!! ♥
> 
> title comes from _unmasked!_ by the mountain goats.

_What made you become a goalkeeper_?

It's a tired question, and Gigi has his arsenal of rehearsed answers. He hated running. His father wanted him to do it. He loved Cameroon, he admired N'Kono. Some unhappy circumstances that he capitalized on. The faith others put him in before he ever really earned it. No small amount of luck.

All of it rings true, every reason is one more patchwork piece of the whole, but the full picture still eludes Gigi. 

 

 

 

 

He watches the Champions League final from his hotel room in Prague, Canna's legs swung over his lap. He grips Canna's calf as Real's keeper goes down, as their young knobby-kneed backup hastily readies himself on the sidelines. A nightmare for one keeper is an opportunity for another; Gigi knows this well enough.

It isn't the first time he's seen Casillas play. Two years ago he watched him shut out Valencia to help hoist this same trophy, impossibly young and prodigiously talented, and thought: _Oh. Okay. So there's another one out there_.

" _Fuck_ , the kid's good," Canna says after his third miraculous save of the night. He glances sidelong at Gigi, a mischievous grin spreading over his face. "Better watch yourself."

He moves to pinch the inside of Canna's thigh instead. "Shut up." 

The next day they horse around after training, lining up to try to recreate Zidane's wonder goal, and Gigi stands between the sticks thinking of every time Casillas got his hands on the ball.

 

 

 

 

Occasionally a journalist will tell him that Casillas lists him as one of his inspirations, a height to aspire to in goalkeeping. 

He supposes it should be humbling. He isn't much older, and the idea of anyone wanting to become a better goalkeeper because of him is still foreign. Instead it only lights a fire in his belly, because he can't let this kid outshine him before he's even hit his prime. That's not an option. 

Gigi is sure it's only a matter of time until they meet on the pitch. It's a strangely intoxicating thought — showing the young upstart how it's really done, maybe imparting some wisdom afterward that he'll talk about for years to come. He'll have to start thinking of something appropriately clever to say now.

And still. He remembers that initial buzzing in the back of his mind, that lightning crack of recognition the first time he watched Casillas play. Blood calling to blood. He could be a kindred spirit, not a rival, if only their colors weren't so diametrically opposed.

It takes Gigi longer than he'd like to admit before he realizes he could be both.

 

 

 

Knocking him down a peg or two doesn't feel as good as Gigi imagined.

Casillas already has two trophies under his belt that Gigi's never gotten close to touching, so he doesn't feel _too_ badly about it when Juventus manages to come up from behind and squash Real in the semifinals, but that doesn't lessen the sympathy pang in his gut when it's all said and done.

They've spoken in tunnels and after the final whistle of the first leg, but it isn't until Casillas tromps across the delle Alpi to meet him at the halfway line that Gigi realizes how small he is. 

He doesn't yet know how to wear loss well; the bitter disappointment is plain on his face as he reaches out for a handshake. "Good game."

Gigi yanks off a glove to grasp his hand and pull him in for a hug. His cheek brushes against the kid's close-cropped hair. "It could have gone the other way just as easily." 

He laughs, thin and wavering, shrugging as he pulls away just far enough to look Gigi in the eye. Sure, maybe it could have, but it didn't. Then he points to his own jersey, tugs at the collar. "Switch?"

As he's yanking his shirt off, he hears Casillas say, "Now you have to win, okay?" They swap their kits, and he says it again: "You beat us. So go win." He still looks crushed, but there's something resolutely steadfast in his gaze, something proud and stern in the set of his jaw that belies how young he is. Gigi feels a spark of fondness that wasn't there before. 

"We'll do our best," he grins.

Casillas nods, staring down at the new jersey in his hands. He regards it for a moment before he looks up again. "But next time it'll be us," he says, one corner of his mouth lifting. A challenge. A promise to meet again, whenever the fates of football find it appropriate to make it so; a promise to make it interesting.

Okay. Gigi can work with this.

 

 

 

 

Gigi knows that penalty shootouts aren't down to keepers, not really. He knows that generally speaking, a keeper can correctly predict the shot half the time; they save the shot half of _that_. They can only spend so many hours watching recordings of opponents taking penalties, picking out telltale signs and patterns to look for in the future. There's only so much time to read the player, to take in their stance, their confidence, the look in their eyes, to interpret what it all means before they surge forward for the kick. There's less than half a second to put all of that into action, to _do something_ about it.

He knows all of this in his head, but his heart is one stubborn bastard.

When the fifty-fifty fortune tips in Milan's favor, when Shevchenko bests him, when the stadium erupts around him, Gigi thinks for the first time in his life: _Maybe this isn't for me_.

In the locker room Alessandro cards both hands through his hair over and over, comforting but hard enough to finally raise Gigi's head and look him in the eye. "It wasn't you," he says, and Gigi knows, but.

He can never explain to anyone how it feels, standing between the posts, watching over the action, waiting. It's intimate, it's private, it's intensely lonely. It's the only thing in the world he's found that makes him feel small. 

"It wasn't you," Alessandro repeats, his gaze unwavering but warm. Gigi swallows hard. 

He _knows_ , but when he's the singular line of defense, who else could it be?

"Okay," he says anyway. "Okay. You're right."

It must sound believable enough, because Alessandro loosens his grip, leans down to press his lips to his forehead. Gigi reaches for the front of his shirt and twists the fabric uselessly. Alessandro doesn't understand what it's like for him — which is fine, none of them can — but god, he tries. It's easy to forget that he's hurting from the loss too; he checks on all of them in turn, makes them look at him, makes them understand that this is not the end. _If I'm ever a captain_ , Gigi swears to himself, _Let me be like him_.

 

 

 

 

They meet for the first time with their national teams, then twice again in the Champions League, and every time they seek one another out, homing in as soon as they're able.

Iker is a stern commander in goal, but outside of those ninety minutes he's different. He speaks plainly, he's honest, he's not as serious as he seems at first glance. He knows how to take a joke. They swap kits each time, a private ritual between them.

Gigi thumbs at the jagged sleeve of Iker's jersey. "Why do you do this?"

"Luck," Iker shrugs easily. "It works. Trust me."

Maybe it's a keeper thing, being self-assured even in the face of utter absurdity. Or maybe it's something only they share. Either way, Gigi's grateful for it. Every time he draws Iker into a hug and presses a kiss against his cheek, it feels like reaching across a void, finally finding a hand to meet his own.

 

 

 

 

 _What made you become a goalkeeper_?

A chance to stand tall and proud with his team, _Fratelli d'Italia_ booming around them, the colors they love waving to them from the stands and stamped over their hearts. The burden of guarding the goal of his home, the weight of a nation's expectations over his shoulders, the pressure to make millions of people he'll never know proud. The overwhelming dizziness of affection that comes with brotherhood, the nights spent out in countries they'd never otherwise see, the frustration and elation all shared in kind.

A great Italian midfielder is a dime a dozen, his father told him. But a great Italian keeper? _There's_ an opportunity to make his mark. 

The World Cup trophy is solid and heavy in his hands as Canna passes it to him, smaller than he expected but infinitely more precious.

 

 

 

 

The chaos of Calciopoli dies down into silent tension. Lines are drawn. Personal and professional necessities rise above the club. Gigi knows it's wrong to begrudge anybody that, especially when he was considering it himself not too long ago, but— well. The club is black and white for a reason.

Alessandro lets him in when he shows up past midnight, sits with him in the dim quiet of his living room for a long while. "I'm not leaving," he finally tells Gigi, the conviction in his voice steady. "If anyone wants me to go, they'll have to drag me out themselves."

Gigi nods and stares down at his hands. 

"I'm staying too," he says aloud for the first time, though his mind's been made up ever since the verdict came down on them.

He's still staring at his hands when Alessandro grabs both of them and brings them up to his lips, a benediction bestowed on each.

"We'll right this," he says. "We'll do it together."

 

 

 

 

Hundreds of miles away, Iker Casillas wraps his tongue around the word. _Calciopoli_. They ask him if this still makes Buffon the greatest keeper in the world, or if it's finally time for him to ascend the throne.

His eyebrows furrow as he considers the question, expression flickering in the grainy footage on Gigi's television. "This changes nothing," he says, like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "He is still the greatest. The second division is a new challenge for him. I'm sure he will rise to the occasion. I have a lot of faith in him."

A smile breaks out over Gigi's face for the first time in days, wide and wild enough to hurt his cheeks. 

That's exactly what he told his agent: _I welcome the challenge_.

At first it's a fleeting thought as he watches the interview — _Oh, I could kiss him_ — but something about it sticks in Gigi's mind and refuses to fade away.

 

 

 

 

The first time he sees Iker wearing the captain's arm band, it barely registers as a new development. It makes sense that he earned it. For as long as Gigi has known him, his brow has born a heavy responsibility. Captaincy suits him, snug as the band around his bicep as he trots across the pitch to greet Gigi.

 

 

 

 

All things considered, Spain look to be on their way to glory, and Italy ends up being just another stepping stone as they tear through the competition.

He doesn't mince words when he seeks Iker out and yanks him in for a hug that's more a vice grip than anything. "You're fucking incredible," he hisses. He isn't even envious. He wants to spend a whole day watching Iker make those saves so accurate they're practically psychic — just not against his own team.

"I've had good teachers," Iker mumbles into his neck. Cheeky bastard. Gigi gives him his shorts as well as his jersey, just for that.

 

 

 

 

Through the fog of pain medication, he sees Iker make a brilliant, split-second reaction to deny Sneijder. All anyone will talk about the next day is Iniesta's goal, of course, a thing of splendor and beauty in its own right — but from his bed Gigi rewatches that save over and over.

He lifts the World Cup high above his head, and more than anything, Gigi wants to be there to congratulate him.

 

 

 

 

"Told you to watch out for that Casillas kid," Canna points out, because he's nothing if not insufferable. He returns to Juventus only to leave again, some sort of cruel tug-of-war with Gigi's heart, only this time he's dropping off the Azzurri captain's arm band as he goes. "Hate to say it, but he's better than you."

It might be true, but Gigi won't admit that just yet. "He's on a lucky streak."

"That's mostly what goalkeeping is anyway, right? Dumb luck." It's unfair that he's being annoying when Gigi still can't get out of bed to whack him. 

It's all cover, anyway. Neither of them know how to handle saying goodbye, and somehow it's exponentially harder the second time around. Eventually Canna drops down next to him on the bed, pushes his hair out of his face to kiss him, and tells him: "Don't fuck up the Azzurri."

"Sweet talker," Gigi says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I won't."

 

 

 

 

The Olympic Stadium is one solid screaming mass around him as he hears the referee blow the final whistle.

 _What made you become a goalkeeper_?

God, not this.

 

 

 

 

He finds Iker at the center circle anyway, his _congratulations_ meeting Iker's _I'm sorry_.

"Don't be sorry, don't be sorry," Gigi murmurs, one arm wrapping around his shoulders to pull him in close. "You've made history. Don't be sorry. Be proud."

Iker is quiet and still. He tightens one arm around Gigi's midsection, threads his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. Then he smiles, soft and proud. He's starting to get wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Neither of them are the future, and as much as it pains him, Gigi realizes he isn't even the present anymore. But Iker, beaming and exhilarated and apologetic and beautiful— Iker is. 

Gigi folds him in closer and brushes a kiss over his cheek. "Go celebrate. I'll see you soon, I'm sure."

"Next summer at least," Iker agrees, and Gigi hadn't yet realized. They'll still be going to the Confederations Cup. Spain can't go twice, after all. "Hopefully sooner."

"Hopefully." He squeezes Iker's side one last time. "Now go." 

Most of the guys take their silver medals and retreat. Gigi hangs back in the tunnel, watches Iker lift the trophy, and feels— 

He isn't sure what he feels.

Too much, that's for certain.

 

 

 

 

Alessandro leaves and takes a part of the club with him.

They hand Gigi the monumental task of sewing it back up — never filling it as it was before, he knows he can't do that, but patching it over to create something new. Another challenge. 

Iker congratulates him via — of all things — a postcard from their preseason in New York City. _I hope we meet soon_ , he writes. Gigi feels a flutter of desire low in his stomach. They can line their arm bands up against one another now, club versus club and country versus country. He wants it, he does.

Until then, there's work to do.

 

 

 

 

"You two are something else," Leo says.

Gigi shrugs at him, wearing his best poker face. It was only nearly thirty minutes of questions about Iker being benched — Gigi's opinion on this matters, apparently, as if he understands the complex inner workings of Real Madrid from where he sits. 

His opinion, of course, is that it's utter bullshit. He says it in nicer words. So strange to see a keeper like Casillas on the bench, isn't it? But he has that champion mentality and will come back stronger. Men like them, he says — number ones in every regard — they let their setbacks fuel them to be even better. He'll return to his rightful seat. Gigi knows it.

"Seriously." Leo keeps in step beside him to follow him through the winding halls of J Stadium. "I don't think I'd ever talk about a rival like that."

"We've gotten to know one another," Gigi says by way of explanation, clasping hands with one of the physios on his way out. "I'm not sure _rival_ is the right word for it."

Leo throws his bag into Gigi's trunk before sliding into the passenger seat. Somehow they've fallen into this routine, staying over with one another, sharing rides and meals and beds. It's nothing serious. It's easy. 

"Whatever the word _is_ , it's fucking weird."

 

 

 

 

Brazil is merciless, sweltering and demanding, and they don't play a single match where Gigi feels at ease between the sticks. They can't go into the World Cup like this and they know it. They're unstable, they're struggling, they aren't the team of seven years ago, not even close. 

Iker's side breezes through to meet them in the semis. Of course they do. Gigi's beginning to think all paths leads back to their meeting. 

"Another fucking shootout," Iker declares as they make their way to the referees.

"Another fucking shootout," Gigi parrots back.

Neither of them get a hand on the ball even once.

Both of them laugh about it after, half-bitter, half-resigned. It helps, it helps more than gentle affirmations from a captain ever did. Gigi's endlessly grateful for everyone who has gone out of their way to help keep him on his feet during his career, but it turns out what he needs is an equal standing next to him so they can lean into the chaos together, embrace the futility of their position. They have half of a half of a chance to be a hero; really, what are they to do with that? So luck didn't fall in his favor yet again. It happens. That's being a keeper. _Fucking shootouts_.

Somehow, when it's Iker standing across the pitch from him, it takes the some of the sting out of losing. 

 

 

 

 

Some of the sheen off of winning, too.

They've punched their tickets for Berlin, though no one watching their star striker would be able to tell. Gigi hangs back and watches Álvaro make himself small enough to tuck against Iker and Sergio, like he's the one who needs comfort. 

Now isn't the time to take him aside and try to talk him off his personal ledge as Gigi's done so many times before, so he lets it go. 

It's startlingly familiar when Iker dislodges himself from Álvaro and peels his gloves off on his way to Gigi. More than a decade later and he still has the same look in his eye, defeated but noble. There are differences, of course: Thinner hair, slower legs, darker circles beneath his eyes. 

Neither of them say anything as Gigi folds him into his arms, until—

"Go win," Iker mutters, voice muffled against Gigi's shoulder. He draws a deep breath before picking his head up, looking Gigi in the eye. He looks exhausted, his smile water-thin. "Seriously. Do it this time. Win."

Gigi curves a thumb over the shell of his ear. "I want to," he admits, which shouldn't feel like as much of a betrayal as it does. Of course he does. They all want to win. But there's something— there's just something. This time it's different.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks, voice low.

Iker's smile doesn't flag, but there's a hint of resignation in his voice when he says, "Yes, I think— we'll see."

They both know the broader question at play here. They both know better than to actually speak it.

 

 

 

 

Berlin, like Manchester before it, is not for them.

That's okay. Despite what the press loves to say, the Champions League isn't an all-consuming obsession for Gigi. He'll live without it. Quite happily, at that. Eventually. Loss burns bright, fades out and spurs him on. He'll be fine; they all will.

 

 

 

 

In truth, he doesn't think much of Iker's radio silence. They all need a well-deserved holiday, and he figures that's all it is.

Rumors brew, as they always do, but these ones don't stop.

And then it's official.

And Gigi sits on the beaches of Sardinia, reveling in his own shock, utterly useless.

 

 

 

 

Iker's phone goes to voicemail every time he calls. Gigi doesn't take it personally; they write to each other on social media, so he knows Iker isn't ignoring him. He just needs space. Christ, it's understandable.

Not long after, his phone stops ringing through at all. He'll be getting a new number in Porto, of course. Should have realized.

He sees the photos of Iker dressed in a smart suit, waving goodbye to an empty stadium, and he feels sick. All of it rings so hollow. Gigi can never understand what it means to give his entire life to a club — he's _bianconero_ to the bone, but Parma holds a not insignificant piece of his heart, and he will always be of both. Then there was Iker, the whole of him stitched into Real Madrid, the two entirely synonymous for Gigi. For most everyone.

He thinks of Iker being torn away from all of that at once, being alone in an unfamiliar place, and he wants to help. Desperately. He doesn't know how he can, but he wants to try.

The line stays dead.

 

 

 

 

He's already asked Álvaro for this same favor once before; he figures there's no harm in doing it again.

"If you could give him my number again," he says during their last training session before international break. "It got lost in the move."

"Sure," Álvaro agrees amicably. His eyes are always focused elsewhere these days. Gigi's starting to worry that they may not keep him for long.

 

 

 

 

Iker apologizes before he even says hello, words tumbling out of his mouth and across international lines. _I didn't know how to talk to anyone about it. I shut down. That's not an excuse. I'm sorry. I should have returned your calls. I got your messages, I listened to every one. It was just too hard. I'm still settling, but it's better, but I still don't know—_

A lull.

He never does finish that thought.

"It's okay," Gigi says, voice soft. Iker doesn't volunteer anything more, so he tries something else. "Tell me about Porto."

And Iker does. He talks about being able to visit the coast every day if he wants, the beautiful bike rides he's taken, the market he goes to, the food he loves too much, his pathetic attempts at learning Portuguese, how well he gets on with his new goalkeeping coach, how kind everyone is, how they go out of their way to make him feel at home. His voice falters a little on the last word. It digs a hole in Gigi's heart.

The hours creep past as they catch up. They talked a few times before, but never at length, never like this— Gigi finds himself plugging his phone in to charge as they keep on chattering about everything and nothing. Life in Porto, life in Turin, life before either. 

"It's late." And he's an hour behind Gigi, so. 

"I know," Gigi yawns. "I'm sorry for keeping you up."

"Shut up," Iker laughs and stumbles over his words a bit, "No, this was good, thank you for calling, I needed—"

Again, the thought hangs unfinished. Gigi thinks he knows. Sometimes it helps to be distracted, to talk about everything but the great gaping chasm. 

"We'll talk again soon," he promises. "Get some rest."

 

 

 

 

That night he dreams of rocky coastline, wet sand beneath his feet as he stands in the surf, and Iker wading farther and farther out into the sea.

 

 

 

 

In time Iker tells him how it all happened, what's fact and what's wholesale fiction by bored journalists with too much time on their hands. Most of the uglier parts are true, which doesn't ease any of Gigi's bitter frustration, but it's good to know, he supposes.

"I don't know if I would have gone as graciously," Gigi admits. "You're tremendous."

Iker deflects the compliment with a low murmur. "No, just tired of fighting it."

Gigi's stomach twists. He quits his pacing around the backyard and settles onto a chair, leaning back and tipping his chin toward the sky. It's a balmy late spring evening and the air wraps heavy around him as he sorts through what he's about to say. "I want to see you during the Euros." And then, what he doesn't: _I miss you. I want to fix everything for you. You're too far away to sound like that_.

"Well. We'll see if I'm on the squad."

"Bullshit," Gigi laughs reflexively. "You will be." A doubtful little hum across the line. "Really? You don't think so?"

"I never know anymore," Iker says. "I've learned not to make plans."

Gigi closes his eyes. "Make a plan with me anyway." 

"Like a dog who won't let a chew toy go..."

"Even if we don't play each other," Gigi presses. "Let's meet up. Please."

Maybe that's what does it. It isn't begging, not by a long shot, but— a distant echo of it. "Alright," Iker relents. Gigi allows himself a moment to celebrate, one fist raised in the air, before Iker cuts back in: "I've been thinking of something, though."

"Yes?"

The only hesitation in Iker's voice is the short breath he lets out. He's never been one to beat around the bush; it's one of the things Gigi likes best about him. "How do you feel about retiring at the same time?" 

The world, or at least Gigi's small pocket of it, stills.

"I'm not ready to quit yet," he's going on. "I don't know when I will be. But I don't— I mean. I can't imagine someone else in your goal. I don't want to. So."

It makes sense. On paper, it makes perfect sense. Their careers have followed after one another, intersecting enough times that it seems like divine intervention. Every path Gigi has walked, Iker has walked his own in parallel. 

"Even if they don't let me play again," Iker says, his voice measured. "I'm not hanging up my boots. Not until you say you're ready. Then— _then_ we can talk."

"You've thought this through," Gigi says. His mouth is dry.

To his credit, Iker laughs. "I have a lot of time to myself here, Buffon." It's strange, imagining Iker without a passel of players to herd. All of this is strange.

"Okay," Gigi agrees, because— well. There's no world in which he could tell Iker no. "Okay. Yes. Let's do it. It's a deal."

"A pact."

"A legally binding blood oath."

"Meet me in Paris and we'll shake on it."

Gigi feels himself grinning like an idiot and draws his free hand over his face, trying to will it away. No use. His heart is too full, pounding out of his chest.

 

 

 

 

He should have listened to Iker, of course. Make plans and god laughs.

France doesn't go quite as either of them expect. They meet in the knockout round and proceed to show Spain the door, but it's all overshadowed by the inevitable unfolding of Álvaro's buyback clause. The boy burrows his face in the crook of Gigi's neck as he tries to talk to Iker, keeps mumbling his apologies about Juventus and his congratulations about the Azzurri. Gigi can't focus.

He cards a hand through Iker's hair, feels Iker grip the nape of his neck. "So. Russia?"

"Russia," Iker agrees, despite not setting foot onto the pitch for even a minute during this competition. "We'll go from there."

 

 

 

 

"I'm starting to really love it here," Iker tells him a couple months into the season. 

Realistically, Gigi knows he had nothing to do with it. He considers it a win anyway.

 

 

 

 

More than half the team crowds around Alex Sandro, patting his face and tugging his hair and teasing him, _the prodigal son returns_ and all that. Neto and Emil are there too, so Gigi's left lingering by the goal alone, weighing the familiar anticipatory hum in his stomach. Again, again, always and again— the world tilting, pushing him toward Iker no matter the cost.

It's Giorgio who sidles up to him first, tugs his ear and jostles him. "Alright, capitano?"

"Never better," Gigi grins. It isn't a lie, yet Giorgio stares expectantly, eyebrows raised, his smile more a leading question than anything he could say. "It's a favorable draw," he eventually relents.

Giorgio shrugs, stretches one arm high over his head, grabs the elbow to draw it behind his back like they're doing some semblance of work to prepare for Roma. "Oh, I don't know. Casillas is in the form of his life, so they say. Like the old days."

"They say the same about me," Gigi says lightly.

Leo jogs over to join up with them and takes the opportunity to smack Giorgio's stomach while he can't defend himself. And because he's got as much tact as a freight train, he picks up on the thread Giorgio was beginning to pull, points a finger in Gigi's face. "Don't get soft because it's him."

"When have I ever?"

That only nets him a pitying little glare.

Gigi maintains his innocence, squinting out over the pitch. Allegri's on his way. The countdown until he starts shouting at them to quit fucking off is on. "We'll be ready," he assures them. 

They will. The team will be fine. And Gigi— well. Gigi has two months to get his head on straight.

 

 

 

 

The media makes a meal out of it almost immediately, and for once Gigi doesn't entirely mind. He lost the desire to read about himself long ago — that's a young man's game, and moreover, that's for men who put stock in what anyone else thinks of them. If it isn't coming from someone with the Juventus crest stamped on their employment papers or someone with his surname, he can't say he cares.

And yet.

It's difficult to avoid hearing about, downright impossible to avoid thinking about. 

Yes, they are legends.

Yes, it was fated.

Yes, it could be the last time.

 _Yes, yes, yes_ , a constant litany repeating in his head, threatening to finally crack and spill out.

 

 

 

 

(Iker calls him not two days later. "I'm excited," he says, and he genuinely sounds it. "Our sides are strong. It'll be a great match."

Of course that's what he focuses on. Of course. Gigi agrees, phone nestled between neck and shoulder as he sinks down into his couch. "I can't wait." He means it more than Iker can possibly know.)

 

 

 

 

The holidays come and go. Iker returns to Móstoles, sends him a random photo of a random street, as if Gigi would understand its significance. Then again, that's home — everything and nothing is significant all at once. He thinks of Carrara, the view from his family's backyard, how he could never look over the horizon without the imposing marbled mountains. He isn't there; he bakes under the blazing sun in Doha instead.

 _Welcome home_ , he writes back. Iker replies with a flurry of smiley faces, then well wishes for the match, a promise that he'll be watching.

 

 

 

 

It's Milan again, it's penalties again, it's a loss again. Gigi watches Paulo, the hem of his shirt tucked between his teeth as he cries, Claudio and Juan swarming him. 

In the locker room he speaks to them one by one, spends a long time with his head bent low against Mandžukić's as he goes over the simple facts. There is no blame to be assigned, not to Gigi, not to any of them. A loss is a loss, and to lay it on one person's shoulders is not what they do.

Paulo sheds more tears, bitterly disappointed and angry with himself. It's an echo of a feeling Gigi remembers well enough, but now he's only tired. Nothing makes him feel his age like losing a shootout does.

 

 

 

 

"I wasn't able to watch," Iker tells him the next time they get a chance to talk, a week later. "Unai wanted to go out."

"Good," Gigi grumbles. "I can't say it was my best showing."

The line is quiet for a moment, long enough that Gigi thinks maybe he lost him, but then Iker speaks clear and slow, choosing his words carefully. "Your worst match is still one I would watch."

Which— very well might be bullshit, honestly. Just a platitude to try to smooth over some hurt feelings. It could be, of course, but Gigi knows Iker well enough to read the sincerity in his words, stilted and awkward as they are. He doesn't quite know what to do with it.

"We're getting old," Gigi eventually settles. 

Iker snorts. "Speak for yourself," he says, then: "Happy new year, Gigi. See you soon."

 

 

 

 

Paulo's laying on his belly, one hand pillowing his chin and the other cradling his phone, legs swinging idly in the air behind him, nothing but an artfully draped sheet covering the smooth, tan expanse of his skin.

Gigi has a weakness for him.

Gigi knows he's far from the only one.

"Did you hear I'm going to Manchester United?" he asks and continues scrolling. "Oh, Bayern Munich too. Guess there are two of me!"

"You read too much," Gigi says from where he's rooting around in his closet, trying to find the tie he needs for their team dinner. 

"Damn kids and their technology." His voice is a lilting singsong impersonation of Gigi's. A bad one. "Back in my day you had to walk all the way to the market to pick up a newspaper with your face on—" He goes quiet and Gigi figures he got tired of his own joke midway through until he emerges from the closet, still tie-less, and finds the boy grinning at him with all his teeth. "When's the last time you looked at Twitter?"

Gigi levels him his best stern look. "Why."

"Come look!" He rolls onto his back and sits up, the sheet pooling in his lap. "Caaaapi," he croons. "C'mere."

They're going to be late for this dinner and Claudio will skin them both.

He settles on the bed next to Paulo, knocks their heads together as he leans in to look at the screen.

It's Iker.

"He sent it yesterday." Paulo tuts his tongue. "I bet he thinks you're ignoring him. Cruel..."

It's Iker, sending him a link to their a video of their head-to-heads, asking who Gigi thinks is better — _For me, you the best!!_

Heat rises in Gigi's cheeks, his own body betraying him, and he gets up to busy himself with getting ready instead. Not to be deterred, Paulo soldiers on. "I can't wait to meet him. Do you think he'll give me his jersey? Am I gonna have to fight you for it?" He can _hear_ the sly smirk crawling across Paulo's features when he says, "I'm not afraid to get between you two."

"No." Gigi tosses Paulo's outfit onto the bed. "Absolutely not."

"Just something to keep in mind," Paulo hums.

 

 

 

 

He turns thirty-nine in his hotel room in Modena, Leo breathing quiet and even in the bed next to his.

He knows he could keep going for years — and in truth, he will, he isn't ready to leave it all behind just yet — but sometimes, late into the night, he thinks of hanging up his boots with no notice and little fanfare. He puts arbitrary markers on it that he knows he'll never actually honor. _If I keep a clean sheet against this team. If I win this title enough times. If I this, if I that._ Sometimes he makes the mistake of telling Pavel or Agnelli and gets his head chewed off. He knows he shouldn't predicate his retirement on any outside circumstances. He knows he won't.

Still.

 _What made you become a goalkeeper_?

Longevity, maybe. What other position would allow him to stand taller and stronger than ever at nearly forty years old? Where else could he so efficiently stave off a future without football?

He turns his back on the goal, on the years creeping up on him.

He shuts out Sassuolo the next day.

He could do this forever, he thinks, if only they'd have him.

 

 

 

 

"Did you pitch this idea?"

Gigi blinks. "What idea?"

"Oh, you don't know yet." He hears delicate scraping on Iker's end of the line, like bowls and plates being stacked atop one another in a cabinet. "Juventus is doing a video about us."

"Ah."

"So they're sending a film crew—" The clink of glass on glass, a small huffy sigh. "To Porto. To interview me. About you."

Gigi snorts a little laugh. "Say kind things, please." More sounds of dishes being shuffled about. "Am I on speakerphone?"

"Yes."

"Incredibly rude." Gigi thinks of his own dishes left undone downstairs and can't bring himself to care, stretching lazily across his bed instead. "That's what I'll tell them when they ask me about you. Iker Casillas is a gifted goalkeeper and a dear friend, but he calls at odd hours and makes me listen to him do chores. As if I care."

A cabinet slams. Gigi wonders if Iker has neighbors, if they mind him banging about his house at nearly midnight. "My life is fascinating," he intones. "Anyway, I've been told we'll film between matches."

"That's a strange choice."

"Yeah." The sound quality shifts— Iker is closer, clearer. He's off speaker. "It'll be even stranger after we've beaten you."

 _Fuck_. Gigi's heart jumps in his chest and suddenly he's twenty-five again, meeting him head-on for the first time. Back when he first realized that competition doesn't necessarily have to be rivalry, back when they were both young and clean-shaven and brilliant and stupid, back when Iker was just _Casillas_. Here he is, still spurring Gigi on, forcing both of them to be better.

If Gigi loves one thing about Iker, he loves one thousand, but his quiet and unrelenting ambition is up there.

Laughter rumbles up from Gigi's chest. "Oh, I've missed you."

"Likewise, my friend," Iker says, and he's laughing too. Gigi rolls onto his side, bends one knee to lay his leg flat against the bed, presses his hips into the mattress and his smile into the pillow. 

 

 

 

 

Porto stretches out bright and beautiful beneath them. Gigi leans his forehead against the plane window to take it in. It isn't a bad place to call a second home, not at all. He can see how Iker would come to love it.

 

 

 

 

The match turns in their favor early on and Gigi knows it. It doesn't feel great, watching Iker's defense struggle after Telles gets sent off. There are other, kinder ways to win.

He tells Iker as much as the find each other in the middle of yet another pitch, the whole stadium around them dropping away.

"I know," Iker admits. "It was reckless. We did it to ourselves."

"Just get someone sent off in Turin and we'll be on equal footing," Gigi jokes.

Iker laughs in the way that brightens up his whole face, and he pushes himself against Gigi again.

And maybe they could leave it at that, like they have every other time, but Gigi finds himself unable to pull away. He can't.

It's Porto. It's seeing Iker in Porto, so different from the last time they met in this competition. He looks brighter than he has in years. The deep lines worn into his face are smoothed over, his shoulders aren't bunched up around his ears, and he looks— free. Like it took losing everything to re-find himself. Like this wasn't the end of the line after all. 

That isn't something Gigi prepared for. It blindsides him and leaves him dizzy. Everything he's half-ignored for over a decade comes bubbling to the surface and overwhelms him entirely.

He keeps a hold on Iker, eyes screwed tightly shut as he says, "We're staying overnight. Let's do something."

"You'll be able to escape?" Gigi nods. Sure. He'll find a way. "There's a great restaurant near my home," Iker grins. "I'll send you directions."

 

 

 

 

It _is_ a great restaurant. They drink just a bit too much, eat _far_ too much, talk over one another and laugh hard enough to disturb nearby tables even with how private it is. Gigi thinks it should feel stranger than it does — it's the first time they've been alone together outside of football — but talking to Iker is as easy as running drills.

Over dinner he asks the million dollar question. Iker tells him that he thinks people like them were always meant to be keepers and there is no simple answer as to what made them do it. People like them — solitary, martyrous, with a healthy dash of ego, ever so slightly masochistic. It's peaceful in goal — by all rights, it shouldn't be, but it is — and they're called to that.

All manners forgotten, he leans an elbow on the table to rest his chin on his hand. "You seem well," he says. "You really do."

"I am," Iker says with an affable little shrug. "You do too." He checks his phone for the first time all evening and grimaces. "It's late— I wanted to show you my house while you're here, but."

"Why not?" Iker's face twists a little. The man does love his rules. "We're already out past curfew. The damage is done."

He can see the gears turning in Iker's head, weighing the pros and cons of extending the night.

"We may not get the chance again," he acquiesces.

Gigi smiles at him, wide and indulgent, before finishing off his wine. "Take me home," he says, and he knows exactly how it sounds.

 

 

 

 

It's a relatively modest house, minimalist in decoration and meticulously organized. In essence, perfect for Iker. They wind up on a screened in porch, hovering near a heat lamp Iker's turned on. 

"You still want to retire together?" Gigi asks. It's been on his mind this season. He'll finish out his contract with Juventus, of course, but after that— 

Iker stays focused on warming his hands by the lamp, but his voice is clear and decisive. "Of course. Nothing's changed."

"Right."

Except it has— or, if it hasn't, it's uncovered what was there all along. Gigi edges closer, one hand reaching out to worry the fabric of Iker's shirt between his fingers. "And what will you do after?"

"Relax," Iker answers with absolutely zero hesitation, then chuckles at himself. "I'll find something else to do, but first— I just want to rest."

"That's what I've been thinking too."

He waits, moves from fussing with the shirt to running his hand up Iker's arm instead. Waits a bit more. It'll come eventually. Then: "We could do that together too," Iker suggests. "Take a holiday."

He finally looks up, his eyes warm, that same tiny challenging smile threatening to form on his lips. 

First instincts are best instincts. Gigi knows this for sure when he closes the distance between them. It's an extension of every time they've found one another on the pitch, Iker's body curving in toward his, Gigi's hand fitting neat against his side, Iker's steady grip on the back of his neck. 

"See," Gigi says between kisses, grinning stupid all over again, "If we retired together, we could do _this_ too."

Somehow it isn't quite the right thing to say, because Iker turns his head away. That's fine, Gigi burrows his face his neck and breathes deep. "Not any time soon. We're both still in this. You— god, you're still good," he murmurs. "I watched you today, you're still _so good_." He's more tipsy than he wants to be, he can smell the wine on his own breath as it warms the skin of Iker's neck. He presses his lips there, then his teeth, and he can feel the rattle of a groan in Iker's throat. 

"Don't," Iker sighs, but as Gigi starts to pull away he finds a hand sliding up in his hair, holding him there. "No, don't— don't _stop_ , just..." He tugs Gigi's hair, not anywhere near hard enough to hurt, just enough to lift his face and look him in the eye again. "Let's not talk. Not about that."

Gigi doesn't need to be told twice.

 

 

 

 

It's too fucking cold to stay out for much longer, so Gigi pushes for them to get back inside, takes full advantage of the brief home tour he got before by leading their stumble back to Iker's room. They sprawl across the bed, laughing like teenagers, Gigi's hands mapping out constellations beneath Iker's shirt.

He's grown used to Leo, to Paulo— but there's something to be said for someone more his age, someone else who has gray at his temples and a soft curve to his stomach. Gigi rests his head briefly against it, presses a line of open-mouth kisses and listens to the way Iker's breath changes. His hands fall to the waistband of Iker's jeans. "Can I," he breathes, and Iker's already lifting his hips off the bed to help slip them off.

He licks a long stripe up the underside of Iker's cock and waits as he scrambles to prop himself up on one elbow, the other hand coming to tangle in Gigi's hair. "Stupid question," Iker says, his eyes wild when Gigi meets them, "But I need to know— how long have you been waiting to do this?"

"Don't embarrass me when I'm about to blow you," Gigi deadpans. "Closer to a decade than not."

Iker huffs out a breathy little laugh, smiling down at him, and then he flops back down to let his head hit the mattress again. "Shit, we're both stupid then."

Which means— a lot of things Gigi always hoped and expected, a lot of things that set his mind ablaze, and he only responds by pushing Iker full into his mouth, slow and languid. Best to just make up for lost time, then.

 

 

 

 

They aren't stupid. Heady and caught up in the moment and still a little buzzed, yes, but not stupid. They both have to return to training the next day, they can't do everything they want to do. Still, that doesn't stop Gigi from crawling over him and whispering it all against Iker's ear as he wraps a hand around both of them at once. It's messy and inelegant and perfect, both of Iker's hands scrabbling against his back, digging in tiny crescent moon when he comes, Gigi following not long after.

"Just stay here," Iker pants against Gigi's cheek. "Go back early in the morning, sure, but— stay."

"They'll kick me off the team and then we won't get to enact our master plan," Gigi jokes weakly, color burst patterns still fading behind his eyelids.

 

 

 

 

If anybody suspected anything while he was gone, they don't say a word when he returns, although he does watch Leo silently walk over to Andrea, Giorgio and Claudio at breakfast and hold his palm out. He beckons until they start rummaging for their wallets, and Gigi closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, not long after the first leg they bring Gigi into Vinovo to film his half of the interview. He calls Iker after to compare answers; mostly they line up.

"I told them that the older we get, the more we like surprising people," Gigi says, casual as anything.

Iker holds the phone far away from his face as he barks out a laugh. "They'll cut that," he says. "You're ridiculous."

They don't. It stays in the final video. They both laugh themselves breathless over it, even with the second match looming only days away. "I'll see you soon," Iker says, fondness at the edge of every word. "Show me a good night in Turin and let me repay the favor."

 

 

 

 

Before that, of course, there has to be the result, and it tips squarely in Juventus' favor.

"It's your year," Iker says against his cheek, cradling Gigi's head. "Listen to me — I really mean it this time, asshole — _go win_."

 

 

 

 

Gigi plants his feet in Cardiff.

Up in the stands he seeks out the place where he knows Iker will be sitting in a couple days. 

All around him his teammates trawl the grounds, their excitement barely contained, their dreams big enough to fill the stadium twice over.

And behind him, standing as steadfast as ever, is his oldest friend of all.

 _What made you become a goalkeeper_?

This. An empty net in an empty stadium, waiting for him to take his place and slot himself in where he's always belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> because i'm incapable of not, here are some supplemental notes:
> 
> \- i'd like to thank [this article](http://www.espnfc.us/uefa-champions-league/2/blog/post/3081539/a-history-of-iker-casillas-vs-gianluigi-buffon-through-the-years) for fueling my obsessive ass about the exact timeline of their careers together.
> 
> \- [god what lame losers they are](https://twitter.com/gianluigibuffon/status/824252378480254976)
> 
> \- [they really do have a retirement pact](http://www.espnfc.us/spain/story/2891337/iker-casillas-i-will-retire-when-gianluigi-buffon-does-the-same)!! 
> 
> \- here's [the incredibly embarrassing interview](http://www.goal.com/en/news/8/main/2017/03/13/33594322/dybala-scoring-against-casillas-would-be-special-i-want-his) where paulo dybala called out iker for his jersey or gloves. more embarrassing: they couldn't wait and swapped at halftime. baby makes three.
> 
> \- [this is the video they did about each other](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBbjCW6gWus), it's basically the newlywed game.
> 
> \- anything you like about esoteric musings about the strange loneliness of goalkeeping is most likely cobbled together from just about every interview gigi has ever done. 
> 
> \- it has nothing to do with anything, but it's important nonetheless: [sometimes iker sleeps in gigi's shorts](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com/post/133116808329/i-sometimes-sleep-wearing-a-pair-of-buffons).
> 
> \- [NORMAL](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com/post/146563067904). 
> 
> \- [they're in love, lads](http://68.media.tumblr.com/f3cef00cf46bdf8ac370404626e96a68/tumblr_olsr37p5E01td6f30o3_500.jpg).
> 
> \- thank you, thank you, a million times thank you for reading. ♥ if you ever want to cry with me about old keepers in love, you can find me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com)!


End file.
